Tuesday 8th July 1808

Dear Diary,
Our last morning on Strokesack Mountain was subdued, even the sun dared not cast off it's own grey blanket. I rose to find Ned standing staring into the fire, his back to me. I sensed he was weeping.
"Sorry to leave Ned?," I asked.
"No, it's not that," he said, "...it's just...today would have been my brother's eighteenth birthday." He didn't look up from the flames but lifted a hand to scrape away his tears and sniffed bravely.
I walked up behind him, hesitated for a moment and then did what felt right. I reached an arm around him and pulled him close in a silent embrace. He leaned into me and began to sob and I just held him, burying my head into his shoulder and he tilted his head to rest upon mine. I don't know how long we stood like that but I cannot remember a time when I have felt such a connection to someone. The moment ended when his head suddenly lifted and he said;
"What can I feel sticking in my back? You gettin' frisky or is that a stick in your pocket?"
It was a stick in my pocket, the one I'd been whittling and I quickly got it out to prove it and then we laughed.
We packed up the camp, loaded up the ass and headed back down into the valley.
We had some lunch with Ned's uncle and Dawn before getting ready to set off back to the Grange. Ned's uncle paid Ned and offered me some small payment but I declined and said perhaps Dawn could use it for a new dress.
We rode in comfortable silence for much of the way back and as we approached our more commodious and sturdy home I thanked him for asking me to accompany him into the wild.
"My pleasure, Mr Austen, sir. Whatever the future got instore for us, we will always have Strokesack Mountain."...and then he 'wanked' at me.